


the stars on the tip of your tongue

by fireblazie



Category: Les Misérables (2012), Les Misérables - All Media Types, Les Misérables - Schönberg/Boublil, Les Misérables - Victor Hugo
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Harry Potter Setting, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-11-22
Updated: 2013-11-22
Packaged: 2018-01-02 07:55:08
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,662
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1054339
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fireblazie/pseuds/fireblazie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’ve asked you all here today to discuss something of the utmost importance,” he begins, and Grantaire sinks further down in his seat. It’s stuff he’s heard Enjolras talk about before—he’s not exactly the quiet type—equal rights for magical creatures: the leprechauns, goblins, banshees, vampires, Veelas, everyone, even the—</p>
<p>“—werewolves,” Enjolras concludes, and Grantaire very carefully does not flinch. </p>
<p>(A Harry Potter AU that takes place three years after the war. Loosely based on a tumblr prompt.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	the stars on the tip of your tongue

**Author's Note:**

> Loosely based on [this tumblr prompt.](http://bambinablue.tumblr.com/post/58551530759/les-mis-hogwarts-au-where-enjolras-is-part-veela)

 

**I.**

 

General opinion of Enjolras amongst the Hogwarts student body is this: Enjolras is one-quarter Veela and as such has pale blond hair and the prettiest blue eyes anyone’s ever seen.

Which naturally leads to the fact that he is, Merlin forbid it, a _Slytherin_ , so stay far, far away if you don’t want to get mixed up in the Dark Arts and find yourself following another Dark Lord.

It’s been three years since the fall of Voldemort, and the world is healing, as best as it can. The dead have been buried, fallen buildings have been restored, and what was broken is slowly beginning to mend. Enjolras still remembers what his fourth year had been like, when the Death Eaters had run the school with unrelenting cruelty (remembers the way they’d eyed him, the _Veela_ , blatant lust lurking in their gazes). It’s a fragile sort of peace that holds them together, the now-seventh year students of Hogwarts, who were children when the war started and unwilling adults by the time it reached its end.

Things need to change, Enjolras realizes, and whispers to his closest friends: “I have an idea.”

Combeferre and Courfeyrac lean in close, undeniably interested. “What do you have in mind?” Combeferre asks, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose.

Enjolras lifts the corners of his lips into a grim smile, and tells them.

 

**II.**

 

Somewhere along the years, Grantaire’s favorite subject became Potions and never really stopped. He likes the element of surprise, the rush of adrenaline that comes from creating something beautiful and worthwhile and powerful from scraps of seemingly innocuous ingredients.

It helps that the Hufflepuffs have Double Potions with the Slytherins.

“There goes Enjolras again,” Marius sighs, eyes flickering in the ambitious Slytherin’s direction.

“You’re awfully preoccupied with our Head Boy,” Grantaire says, deftly chopping a bat wing and casually tossing it into their shared cauldron. “Should Cosette be worried?”

“Never!” Marius turns wide, shocked eyes upon him. Grantaire lets hoarse bark of laughter, which Marius returns with a sheepish smile. “Come on, R.”

Grantaire leans back in his chair. “He _is_ the sort of person who draws attention wherever he goes, without even trying. No, I don’t blame you one bit.”

Marius pulls a face. “He’s—I dunno, kind of frightening, don’t you think?” He scans his Potions text before warily stirring the contents of their cauldron twice, counter-clockwise.

Grantaire throws a furtive glance in Enjolras’ direction, whose brow is furrowed as he shares heated whispers with Éponine over their simmering cauldron. “Oh, yes,” he murmurs, “the most frighteningly brilliant person I’ve ever seen.”

 

**III.**

 

“Use that Veela charm of yours to get people in,” Courfeyrac suggests as they’re walking down the Great Hall, pushing past the throng of students making their way to early morning classes. A Gryffindor first-year sends them both a terrified look before scurrying past.

Enjolras narrows his eyes at the sight, and then elbows Courfeyrac sharply in the ribs. “Because that’s exactly what I need people talking about,” he deadpans, “I can see it in the Prophet now: ‘a seventh-year Slytherin uses his Veela blood to convince the Hogwarts student body to join in his crusade for equal rights: A new Dark Lord in the making.’”

“For _equal rights_ ,” Courfeyrac presses, “not for wiping out the entire Muggle and Muggle-born population.”

“Drop it,” says Enjolras, and Courfeyrac sighs at him.

“Anybody who thinks that way is an idiot.” Courfeyrac matches him, stride for stride, even as Enjolras hastens his pace in his irritation. “I mean, just _look_ at you, for fuck’s sake. You’re wearing a Gryffindor scarf, did you know?”

Enjolras glances down at his neck. “You gave it to me for Christmas. Of course I’m wearing it.”

“Missing the point here, thanks.”

“I’m not using my _charm_ , as you so eloquently put it,” Enjolras says firmly. “It will just be—me. Along with you and Combeferre. I won’t have anybody that doesn’t want to be there.”

“I just meant to get them to come to the meetings,” Courfeyrac tries again, “not to force them to stay and do your bidding.” At Enjolras’ unchanging expression, he shrugs. “Well, all right. Didn’t expect anything else, to be honest. See you at lunch? Where are we sitting this time, anyway?”

“Gryffindor,” says Enjolras; they switch tables every other week or so rather than confining themselves to their respective Houses. “I’ll see you then.”

 

**IV.**

 

Grantaire takes a seat near the back, eyeing his surroundings with mild interest. Marius, who’d come with him, has drifted off to where Cosette’s sitting with the other sixth years at the other end of the room. He spares them an indulgent half-smile before sinking down in his seat and crossing his arms behind his head.

The meeting, as had been advertised, starts promptly at half-past five. Enjolras steps up to the front and the room goes quiet almost instantly.

“I’ve asked you all here today to discuss something of the utmost importance,” he begins, and Grantaire sinks further down in his seat. It’s stuff he’s heard Enjolras talk about before—he’s not exactly the quiet type—equal rights for magical creatures: the leprechauns, goblins, banshees, vampires, Veelas, everyone, even the—

“—werewolves,” Enjolras concludes, and Grantaire very carefully does not flinch. He senses Marius’ worried gaze the way he always does, the wolf’s quiet growl in the back of his head, and meets his eyes briefly before turning away.

“Even the monsters, you mean?” His mouth is moving before he can stop it, and Enjolras, for the first time, turns the full weight of his glare on him.

“They aren’t monsters,” he says coolly, eyeing him with disdain. “They’re only dangerous one night of the month—”

“So you say,” Grantaire retorts, “but how would you know? Maybe they always have the urge to bite, to terrorize, to kill.”

“Perhaps some may,” allows Enjolras, as mutterings of Fenrir Greyback’s name echo throughout the room, “but not all werewolves are so inhumane.”

“Exactly.” Grantaire shoots him a grim, triumphant smile. “They’re not human, are they?”

“That is a severely narrow-minded view,” Enjolras tells him.

“I suppose I’m a narrow-minded kind of guy,” says Grantaire easily.

Combeferre, at that point, wisely steps forward and sets a placating hand on Enjolras’ elbow before addressing the room at large. His words drift in and out of Grantaire’s ears as he stares down at his scuffed shoes.

When he looks up, Enjolras is watching him with an unreadable expression, tendrils of wavy blond hair escaping from his Slytherin hair ribbon. He sends him a cheeky grin, expecting and receiving nothing in response.

The old scar on his hip aches something fierce that night.

 

**V.**

 

The library is nearly empty when Enjolras comes in to write his Transfiguration essay, which is why he’s taken by surprise when he finds a slumbering figure occupying his favorite chair. It’s Grantaire from the meeting, he thinks, taking in the curly dark hair and pale face. His eyes land on the yellow-and-black striped tie hanging loosely around his neck.

He busies himself with settling into the seat opposite him, studying him openly and frankly. Grantaire, for his part, doesn’t so much as twitch at the rustling sounds Enjolras makes, quiet snores drifting from his half-open mouth. Slumped over as he is, his sleeves have ridden up, revealing a harsh scar that runs from the bony point of his shoulder to the inner, softer flesh of his arm. It’s the nasty sort that’s difficult to look away from, no matter how hard he tries. It’s probably from the war, he thinks, and he’s so fixated on it—twisted flesh, an angry red against the pallor of his skin—that he doesn’t realize the object of his curiosity has woken up, staring at him oddly.

“Hello,” he says, quietly.

Enjolras clears his throat. “Hello,” he replies. “You’re in my seat.”

“Am I?” Grantaire sounds amused as he stares down at his chair. “I can see why you like it. It’s rather comfortable.”

“It doesn’t matter.” Enjolras waves the matter away, and his eyes are drawn to the scar again. “Is that from the war?” he asks abruptly.

“This?” Grantaire raises a hand to trace the raised skin before pulling his sleeve down to cover it. “Something like that, yeah.”

It’s a vague answer, and Enjolras, despite what Courfeyrac may say about his ability to understand human emotion, recognizes that Grantaire has grown distinctly uncomfortable with the conversation, and lets the matter drop.

“Will I see you at next month’s meeting?” he asks.

“Would you welcome me back?” is Grantaire’s reply, with a sharp twist of his lips.

Enjolras is genuinely surprised. “Why wouldn’t I?”

Grantaire furrows his brow at him, eyes bright against the darkness of the library. “I didn’t think I made the best first impression,” he says slowly.

“Ask Courfeyrac for the story of how we met,” says Enjolras dryly. Grantaire doesn’t, though, doesn’t ask about how he and Courfeyrac met, doesn’t say anything at all, just offers him a half-smile as he stands up and gathers his things.

“Will you come next month?” Enjolras repeats.

“I’ll think about it,” says Grantaire vaguely, leaving Enjolras to stare at his retreating back.

 

**VI.**

 

Wolfsbane has and always will taste terrible, Grantaire thinks, and is sorely tempted to wash the goblet down with a shot of Firewhiskey. He’d do it, too, if he hadn’t run out, potential interactions with the potion be damned.

He lies in bed, the curtains closed around him, the sheets tangled around his feet, imagining the almost-full moon in the sky. He wonders what the view from the Gryffindor and Ravenclaw Towers might look like, and decides he doesn’t want to know. The Hufflepuff rooms, at least, are near the kitchens.

He flops over to his side and reaches for his bag, where he retrieves a bar of chocolate—it’s his last one, he’s disgruntled to find, making a mental note to replenish his stock on the next trip to Hogsmeade—unwrapping it and taking a large bite. His fingers come away dark and sticky, and he raises them in a mock toast to the moon.

Two more nights.

 

**VII.**

 

Grantaire does not show up to the next meeting.

Enjolras isn’t _looking_ , but now that he knows the other boy exists, it’s hard to ignore his absence. While Courfeyrac mingles with the other students, he mutters to Combeferre, out of the corner of his mouth, “He’s not here.”

“Who isn’t?”

“Grantaire,” he says, the name feeling like cotton in his mouth.

“I didn’t realize you were expecting him to show,” says Combeferre, peering at him critically.

“He’s exactly the sort of person our cause needs,” Enjolras points out reasonably, “if we can convince someone like him to believe in what we do—”

“Some people can’t be won over,” says Combeferre lightly, and Enjolras frowns at him.

“Do you know something that I don’t?”

“Don’t I always?” Combeferre brushes past him with a light pat to the shoulder. Enjolras considers going after him, but then his eyes land on Marius, and impulsively he calls after him as he walks by.

“Pontmercy.” Marius stops and turns a wide, doe-eyed expression on him. “Would you happen to know where Grantaire is tonight?”

“Grantaire?” Marius lets out a small laugh, raises his shoulders in a half-shrug. “Well. It’s not really his thing, you know? Being a social activist, and all that. I think he thought it was a waste of his time.”

Enjolras studies him. He gets the feeling that while Marius isn’t exactly lying, he isn’t exactly telling the truth, either. “He seemed to have a lot to contribute at the last meeting.”

“Ah. Yes, well.” Marius clears his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “Listen, I could maybe talk him into going to the next meeting. He’ll probably be up for it by then.”

“Why isn’t he up for it now?” Enjolras zeroes in on his phrase with razor-sharp precision, and Marius’ smile grows strained at the corners.

“I think I hear Cosette calling me,” he says, already moving away. “I’ll talk to you later, okay? Good meeting, though. Really great. I learned a lot.” And he somehow manages to move through the throng of students and arrive at the opposite end of the room in the span of a few seconds. Enjolras watches him, thinking hard, but doesn’t pursue him.

Later, in the evening, sitting in the Great Hall for dinner—they’re at the Ravenclaw table, this time— he reaches for an extra helping of potatoes and happens to glance up at the enchanted ceiling. It’s a full moon, tonight.

(He won’t realize until later that Grantaire hadn’t been at dinner, either.)

 

**VIII.**

 

It comes to Grantaire’s attention that Enjolras has been watching him for the past couple of weeks, and he isn’t sure how he should feel about it. Enjolras does everything with a ferocious, single-minded intensity, and even the weight of his gaze on the back of his head is enough to give Grantaire goose bumps.

“You look ill,” is Enjolras’ brusque reply when Grantaire arches an expressive eyebrow at him.

“Your concern is exceedingly flattering,” Grantaire says, jostling against him as the crowd of students rush past to make it to early morning classes. He doesn’t miss the fearful looks a group of Gryffindors shoot in Enjolras’ direction, eyes lingering on his Slytherin tie. “Don’t worry. It’s just a cold.”

Enjolras doesn’t seem to notice them, but watches him with poorly disguised curiosity. “It looks like a rather bad case. Have you been to see Madam Pomfrey?.”

“Nah, it’s worse than it looks.” Grantaire grants him a smile, thin and sharp, and begins to move away. “I’d hate for you to catch it, too. You’ve a lot of work ahead of you, so I’ll take my leave.”

“We have Double Potions,” Enjolras reminds him, catching up to him with ease.

Grantaire laughs. The sound is awkward and loud in the suddenly quiet hallway. “Do you want to be partners, or something?”

“Yes.”

Grantaire’s fingers tighten against the binding of his textbook. “What’s your deal, Enjolras?” He looks him straight in the eye for the first time. “We’ve gone to this school for six—seven years. You’ve never looked at me, not once. And now I’m suddenly interesting enough for you?”

Enjolras ignores his words. “If you don’t want to be partners, you could simply say so.”

“Then no,” Grantaire says evenly, “I don’t.” They arrive at the Potions classroom at that point, and he darts inside quickly, taking his usual spot by the window. He feels Enjolras’ stare on him for the entirety of the class, and pointedly refuses to look in his direction.

 

**IX.**

 

Professor Javert was hired the year after the end of the war as a temporary Potions Master, but has ended up staying for the past three years. Enjolras doesn’t mind him much; he’s a no-nonsense sort of man, good at his craft, and grades his students fairly. He isn’t affiliated with any of the Houses, either, which earns him points in Enjolras’ book, although he has a strange preoccupation with Professor Madeleine, their Muggle Studies professor who’d been hired around the same time.

If there _is_ a student that he seems to like, it would have to be Grantaire. Enjolras is somewhat surprised to find that he is rather excellent at Potions, even though he appears not to pay any amount of attention in class. He dozes near the back of the room, staring out the window when Javert lectures, but manages to produce each potion perfectly, even while having Marius (whose best subject is decidedly _not_ Potions, despite somehow managing to get into the N.EW.T. level course) for his partner each class.

Grantaire is—curious. It’s not just the fact that he’d pulled a strange disappearing act on them—there are other things that bother him, like Combeferre’s easy dismissal of Grantaire’s absence, like Marius’ staunch attempt to cover up for him (the attempt, Enjolras has to admit, was admirable, but hardly subtle), and Grantaire’s up-and-down mood swings.

He’s setting up patrol with the sixth year Ravenclaw prefects near the library when he catches a glimpse of Grantaire leaving, looking pale and exhausted, dark circles beneath his eyes. He finishes up with the Ravenclaws distractedly, only half registering their upturned lips and ill-concealed whispers (“A Slytherin for a Head Boy, honestly, what was McGonagall thinking?”) as he pursues Grantaire.

But Grantaire doesn’t go towards the Hufflepuff common room. Instead, he heads towards the dungeons, towards the Slytherin rooms, and he trails after him silently. It’s not his proudest moment, nor his most graceful, but he’s never been known for giving up, and he follows Grantaire into the hallway leading to Javert’s office. He watches as Grantaire disappears behind a thick, wooden door.

He creeps closer, pressing an ear to the wall. The door has been left just a crack open, and their voices, while muffled, drift out into the hall.

“Thank you, sir.” Grantaire’s voice is gruff. “But I’m more than capable of making it myself, honestly. I do it during the holidays, after all.”

“I’m more than aware of your talents.” Javert sounds almost proud. “Nevertheless, the Headmistress has charged me with brewing the potion for you while you attend the school.”

Grantaire sighs, and there’s a sound of something thudding against a desk—a book, perhaps? Or—no, it’s distinctly metal, like a dish or a glass. “Take it,” Javert is saying, “cast a Disillusionment charm, hide it from your nosy classmates.”

“That won’t be necessary; I’ll just drink it all here.” He hears Grantaire take large gulps of some sort of potion, presumably, and make a loud noise of disgust. “It never gets better, does it?”

Enjolras doesn’t hear Javert’s reply, maneuvering himself to peek in through the slight crack in the door. There’s a goblet on Javert’s desk, pewter, blue smoke faintly emanating from the rim. It looks exactly like it does in his textbook.

_Oh_ , he thinks, a little numbly.

And then Grantaire turns, suddenly, and meets his eyes through the crack. In this light, his eyes are a dark, dark blue, piercing. Enjolras draws in a sharp breath and instinct forces him to turn and leave, quickly, listening for the sound of footsteps in dogged pursuit, bracing for a confrontation.

It never comes. He doesn’t know if he’s relieved or disappointed.

 

**X.**

 

Grantaire pretends nothing has happened. It is one of the things he does best, Éponine had told him once, and who is he to let her down?

Enjolras watches him, as he did before, but stays decidedly more distant, which makes Grantaire laugh, a hopeless, bitter sort of laugh. Their fearless leader, who talks big, is afraid of the big bad wolf after all. He’s not all that surprised. It’s not an unusual reaction to his _condition_ , and it’s certainly not the worst he’s received.

On the night of the full moon, he slips out of his dormitory with a half-smile for Marius and heads towards his monthly prison. It’s a room in the Astronomy Tower that’s been created solely for him, a sort-of bedroom with plush carpet on the floor and a fireplace. He says the password under his breath, born of his own perverse sense of humor, and the door slides open obediently. He can feel the pull of the moon already. With a resigned sigh, he loosens his Hufflepuff tie and toes off his shoes. He pulls off his clothes, plops down on the floor, and gazes up at the sky expectantly. Not much longer, now.

The last few moments before a full moon rises are always strange—his instincts grow distinctly more feral, and his senses sharper, more alert. The Wolfsbane dulls them, to an extent, and helps him retain his human sense of thinking, but the urge to hunt—well. That doesn’t quite go away, not completely, not under the grip of the moon.

“Ah—” he hisses suddenly, back growing rigid as he fixes his eyes on the sky, as the full moon makes its complete ascent in the sky. Within seconds, he’s writhing on the ground in excruciating pain. He’s half-aware of the moans and ragged screams that leave his mouth—it never gets any easier—but then he notices other things: footsteps slowly approaching him, the scent of books and ink and something decidedly male, and then he’s whirling around to face the door, nostrils flaring.

“What the _fuck_ —” he growls, and Enjolras’ startled blue eyes are the last things he sees through a human gaze.

 

**XI.**

 

To his credit, Enjolras had known this was a stupid idea the moment he’d thought of it. He’d just ignored his sense of reason, marking down the date of the full moon on his calendar and lingering near the Hufflepuff rooms on that night.

Grantaire doesn’t try hard to disguise the fact that he’s leaving the Hufflepuff basement, and he considers fleetingly what sort of excuses he might have made. Someone was probably helping him, someone in his own House. His mind immediately jumps to Marius; it makes perfect sense.

He follows him to a classroom he’s never noticed before. The outline of the door is blurry and hazy, and it takes every ounce of concentration he possesses to focus on its presence. He listens as Grantaire mutters a password that nearly makes him snort out loud, and watches him disappear inside, closing the wooden door behind him.

He lingers in the hallway for a few minutes, studying the door. Had this room always been here, or had it been created for this specific purpose? The Astronomy Tower’s an interesting choice; he would have chosen somewhere closer to the ground, away from the moon. Maybe the wolf craves it.

He presses an ear to the wood and finds it completely silent. A sound-proofed room, then, probably cast with a particularly potent Silencing Charm, among other protective enchantments. He fleetingly wonders how many times they’ve held classes on the rooftop with Grantaire imprisoned here, no one the wiser.

He hesitates only briefly—he’s come this far already, after all—before seizing the handle in a tight grip lowering his head towards the door. “ _Argent_ ,” he murmurs, and the door silently swings open.

Grantaire spins around to meet his eyes, wide and panicked, and Enjolras knows he should look away but he can’t, he _can’t_ , as Grantaire’s bones twist savagely out of their sockets, erasing the boy and leaving behind the wolf, who still hasn’t looked away.

It’s over surprisingly quickly, but it’s still one of the most horrifying things he’s ever seen.

“Grantaire,” he says, voice a little hoarse, and Grantaire bares his teeth at him in warning. Enjolras ignores it, and moves closer. This time, Grantaire growls, and Enjolras stops a few feet away.

“I’m just going to sit down,” he says quietly, slowly settling down on the floor. Grantaire doesn’t take his eyes off him.

“I assume you are angry,” he ventures after another pause, and Grantaire makes a sound like a snort. “I simply wanted to—see.” Grantaire makes an inquiring noise. “I wanted to see what the transformation was like. I realized that I speak on behalf of werewolves, of the others, but I know very little apart from what is in the textbooks. I know that it was dangerous, but I saw you taking Wolfsbane. Besides, I do have my wand, and I’m quite excellent at Defense.”

Grantaire seems to relax, curling around one of the large pillows on the floor. Enjolras watches him. Grantaire’s coat is dark, like his hair, curling at the ends. It looks sleek, and soft. He’s gripped by the sudden urge to touch it.

“Does it hurt?” Enjolras asks, suddenly. Grantaire, whose eyes had been slowly drifting shut, opens them again. “It looks—” He breaks off, realizing that Grantaire can’t answer him anyway. But he does, in his own way, inclining his head ever so slightly.

The night passes in a silence that’s not entirely awkward and yet not quite comfortable, Enjolras eventually lying on his back on the carpet. Grantaire tosses a ratty blanket in his direction with his teeth. Enjolras pulls it up to his chin, even if it does smell like dog.

It’s strangely relaxing, and he falls asleep to the sounds of Grantaire’s breathing beside him.

 

**XII.**

 

Grantaire wakes up a little bit before dawn, and stares down at Enjolras’ slumbering figure with too many emotions to understand.

As the sun rises, he inches as far away from Enjolras as he can, bracing himself for the transformation. Turning back to a human isn’t as painful, but it still takes its toll on his body, exhausted enough as it is. Low, poorly muffled groans drag out of his mouth as he curls in on himself, bones breaking and setting themselves, skin reforming over his aching joints.

Enjolras, of course, is awake by the time the pain subsides, kneeling next to him with a concerned expression on his face, draping the blanket he’d used last night over his body. Grantaire fixes him with a piercing look before summoning every last ounce of strength he’s left with to sit up and punch him in his perfect, beautiful face.

“ _What_ —” Enjolras begins, furious, hand coming up to cradle his cheek.

“Should’ve been in Gryffindor, fucking idiot,” Grantaire hisses before blacking out.

 

**XIII.**

 

Grantaire falls into Enjolras’ life the way he does most things: lazily and infuriatingly, in that half-assed way he attends classes while dozing in the back and still managing to be frighteningly good at all of his subjects.

(There are, it seems, some experiences that can’t be shared without winding up tolerating each other, and sneaking into a werewolf’s rooms during the night of the full moon is one of them. Or so Grantaire claims.)

It’s only the little things, at first: a slight nod of acknowledgment when they pass in the hallways, quick concerned glances when the full moon approaches, extra biscuits nicked from the Great Hall the mornings after.

And then they start running into each other at the library, and Grantaire’s friends get along with Enjolras’ friends (or, rather, they’d already been friends long before, and Enjolras simply hadn’t noticed), and their ragtag group grows in both  number and diversity. Enjolras doesn’t think he’s seen so many students from other Houses willingly sitting with the Slytherins outside of classes. Most of them, though far from all, aren’t even afraid of him anymore.

“What are you studying?” Grantaire asks, slipping into the seat across from him, landing a solid kick on the leg of Enjolras’ chair. They’ve started an unofficial war in terms of who can get to the chair first; Enjolras is winning, three-to-two.

“Muggle Studies,” says Enjolras, briefly glancing up at him before returning to his notes. Grantaire lets out a short bark of a laugh.

“You’re really out to take down every single Slytherin stereotype, aren’t you?” He pulls out his own set of notes for Transfiguration.

“You know as well as I do that we are no better than them simply because they don’t possess wizarding blood,” Enjolras points out reasonably. “They’ve made several brilliant technological advancements without the crutch of magic. It’s admirable.”

“Yeah, like pens,” mutters Grantaire, pulling one out of his bag. Enjolras stares at it, fascinated.

“May I see?” he asks, and Grantaire drops it into his outstretched hand with a bemused smile. Enjolras turns it over and over, studying it with fierce intensity. He’s only seen them in pictures, but he’s as thorough in his Muggle Studies class as he is in everything else, so he has a passing knowledge of how one works.

He clicks at the top of the pen and begins scrawling on a fresh piece of parchment. “It’s writing in green ink,” he says, delighted.

“That it is,” affirms Grantaire, and Enjolras looks up to see him watching him with unconcealed amusement. He clears his throat, sliding the pen across the desk.

“It’s an interesting contraption,” he says. “Where did you get one?”

“I suppose it is,” agrees Grantaire. “And from home, actually. My parents are both Muggle-born, so I grew up with both Muggle things and magic. Remind me to show you my Walkman sometime.”

Enjolras rolls the foreign word around in his head, remembering it for later.

“But you can have this, if you’d like.” Grantaire holds out his green pen.

Enjolras takes it from him, undeniably interested. “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome,” Grantaire says.

 

**XIV.**

 

On Christmas morning, in his grandfather’s home in Paris, Grantaire receives an owl. It’s a lovely creature, with sleek black wings, all proper and well-behaved. He takes the package from its claws, noting the pureblood family crest, and offers the owl a small treat before sending it on its way. He’ll reply later.

In Enjolras’ impeccable handwriting, the letter simply says:

_Grantaire,_

_Happy Christmas._

_-E_

The box contains an assortment of healing potions, ones to treat bruises and scrapes, ones to replenish energy, ones to relieve pain. They’re high-quality stuff, the sort Grantaire can’t really afford. Beneath the vials he finds a stack of Honeydukes’ chocolate bars and a tin of Christmas biscuits. And beneath that is a medium-sized paperback.

Grantaire stares.

“ _Hairy Snout, Human Heart_ ,” he mouths silently before dissolving into silent, shaking laughter. He somehow manages to crack open the cover.

_Contrary to popular belief, I do have a sense of humor_ , Enjolras had written, _and it came highly recommended. Enjoy._

Grantaire sets the package aside, imagining the wry half-smile that would have sat upon Enjolras’ lips while writing the inscription. He catches himself smiling, too, and begins searching the house for what he’s decided will be a slightly belated Christmas present.

 

**XV.**

 

The day after Christmas, Enjolras receives a hastily wrapped package from a tawny owl. He doesn’t recognize it, but carefully unties the package and sends the owl away with a sizeable treat.

The package was wrapped clumsily, and he gingerly rips it open to reveal—pens. Dozens and dozens of them, in every color, size, and shape imaginable, from elegant ballpoint pens to ones made of cheap plastic; from brightly colored markers to curiously shiny ones that write in pastel and neon ink.

Enjolras lets out a startled laugh, echoing around his large and empty kitchen.

He keeps the pens with him, tucked behind his ears and in his hair and in his pockets, for the remainder of the break.

 

**XVI.**

 

The Hogwarts Express is crowded, as usual, signaling the end of the holidays and the start of the second term. Grantaire finds his usual compartment, gets his trunk squared away, and sprawls lazily across the seat, waiting for Marius to come find him.

But when the door to his compartment slides open, it’s not Marius.

“I enjoyed the pens,” Enjolras says in that abrupt way of his, settling down across from him. Grantaire takes in his perfect posture, his narrow shoulders, his deceptively delicate hands.

“Not as much as I enjoyed the book, I’m sure,” and Grantaire greedily drinks in Enjolras’ half-smile.

“Good break, then?” Enjolras asks.

“Yeah,” says Grantaire, thinking of Enjolras’ present, sitting at the bottom of his trunk, minus the chocolates. Enjolras watches him, intently, and it’s absurd, but there seems to be something— _different_ , in his stare.

But then the door slides open again, and a good majority of their group decides to pile in, squishing Grantaire against the window. Soon enough, they are all chatting about what they did during the break, and the moment, or the almost moment, or whatever the hell it was (or wasn’t), is forgotten.

 

**XVII.**

 

Enjolras leaves Professor Javert’s office with his notes arranged perfectly in his book bag. Although he’s not Head of Slytherin House, Enjolras knows he has plenty of contacts in the Ministry, and isn’t above using them to get his voice heard. Besides, Javert is honest, and vocal about the things he’s seen and heard during his time with the French equivalent of the Ministry. Enjolras takes it all in stride, brain buzzing with the information.

When he gets to the library, Grantaire is in his seat (Enjolras is still winning, though just barely, at four-to-three for this second term), head bowed over several rolls of parchment. Enjolras peers over his shoulder and recognizes it as Astronomy charts.

“Fun,” he says, making himself comfortable in the seat opposite him. Grantaire glances up to give him a quick smile.

“The most fun,” he says, setting the parchment aside to focus more on him. “Did you finally finish up your nefarious plan to take over Wizarding Britain?”

“Yes,” says Enjolras, very seriously, because this seems to be the best way to deal with Grantaire, “if all goes according to plan, I will be Minister within the next five years.”

Grantaire laughs, suddenly loud in the otherwise silent library, and hastily claps a hand over his mouth, no doubt wary of Madam Pince’s ever-looming presence. “I wouldn’t put it past you, honestly.”

Enjolras shrugs. “What about you? What are your future career plans?”

Grantaire raises an eyebrow. “You can’t possibly be serious.” When Enjolras doesn’t respond, he goes on. “What sort of opportunities are there for someone with my _condition_?”

“Plenty,” Enjolras argues, “the laws are more lenient now—”

“It’s not about the laws, Enjolras.” Grantaire says his name so rarely that he’s caught by surprise. The syllables are saturated with irritation. “Okay, so the laws say you can’t turn someone like me away, so they’ll hire me. Give me a shot. What’s to stop them from firing me after missing several consecutive days each month? Goes for both wizarding and Muggle jobs, you know. Even if I take the best energy replenishing potions, even if I—if I do retain my mind on those nights, it’s fucking _exhausting_ , and if I show up half-dead on my feet, who says I won’t screw up on the job? Not to mention the way they’ll look at me every day. No, I don’t need that, thanks.”

“Things will change,” Enjolras insists, “that’s what I’ve—what we’ve all been working on.”

“No, they won’t,” Grantaire dismisses him. “You—see, it’s so. It’s so easy for you to say that, but you don’t know what it’s like for someone like me, to be looked at like a monster, and you never will.”

“I’ve been _looked_ at before,” snarls Enjolras, but Grantaire snorts.

“No, don’t,” he says, dangerously calm, “don’t even compare that to what I’ve had to go through for ten—eleven _goddamn_ years,” and Enjolras falls silent, furious at himself and at the boy sitting in front of him. Grantaire looks away.

“I’m not saying what you’ve been through doesn’t count,” Grantaire murmurs, “I remember, you know. When the Death Eaters came, and they. Looked at you. I saw.”

“They wanted the rebel Slytherin Veela,” Enjolras says lowly, still remembering the feel of their stares at his back. He wrenches himself away from the memory. “No, I was wrong to compare it to your experiences.”

Grantaire shrugs it off, but does stand and begin packing up his things. Enjolras watches him impassively, wanting to say something and yet not knowing the right thing to say. It’s a novel experience for him.

As Grantaire turns to leave, Enjolras impulsively leans over the table and grabs his hand. “Things will change,” he repeats, maybe a little desperately.

Grantaire stares down at their hands with an undecipherable expression before pulling away slowly. “There are some things that even you can’t change,” he says quietly, leaving Enjolras alone with his parchment and books.

(The warmth of Grantaire’s palm lingers on his long after he leaves.)

 

**XVIII.**

 

His arm doesn’t hurt as much as he thought it would, Grantaire notes distantly, scrutinizing his seemingly unmarred, tanned skin. He’d heard it was a painful process, but perhaps things had changed since the end of the War, making it as—easy as something that awful could possibly be.

“I didn’t see you at Hogsmeade.” Enjolras appears from seemingly nowhere, frowning at him, wearing a Hufflepuff scarf around his neck and a Ravenclaw ribbon in his hair. “Marius said you had somewhere to be. He wasn’t particularly forthcoming with any information.”

“Loyal to the end, isn’t he?” Grantaire will never stop being grateful for Marius, whom he’s known since childhood, who has never judged him and has always shown up every morning after the full moon, a blubbering mess but always with a fierce sort of kindness. “It was—well, my birthday.”

“Oh,” says Enjolras, looking a bit awkward. “Happy birthday.”

“Not so happy,” says Grantaire wryly. “I turned seventeen, and you know what that means.”

 “What does it—” Grantaire can see the moment everything clicks in his head, but isn’t quite fast enough to move away before Enjolras seizes his wrist. His touch is searing, completely unrelated to the registration process, and he sucks in a harsh breath.

Enjolras ignores it, yanking his sleeve up, startled to come across unmarked skin.

“It’s not a Dark Mark,” Grantaire says amusedly, recovering quickly, but Enjolras turns on him with his face twisted in a furious expression. How can someone so beautiful manage to look so vicious, he muses, or maybe it’s the other way around?

“You should never have let them do it,” Enjolras hisses, hand still wrapped tightly around his wrist. Grantaire wants to shove him away and hold his hand forever, all at once. “They have no right. _No right_.”

“It’s one of the conditions for attending here,” says Grantaire quietly, “following the laws. Registering myself once I’m of age. Taking Wolfsbane. Going to a password-protected, secluded area that’s reinforced with a shit-ton of magic during the full moon, though you can see how effective that was.”

“I should have gone with you,” Enjolras says next, voice still in an urgent whisper. “You should have told me.”

“Why?” Grantaire asks, puzzled. “I went with my mother. It was fine. There was no need for you to be there.”

“I—” Enjolras falters, though only briefly. “I would have liked to give them a piece of my mind.”

Grantaire snorts. “Oh, yes, I’m sure you would have.” He lowers his voice. “I’m fine, though. Honestly. It didn’t hurt.”

Enjolras releases him without a word and stalks away. Grantaire watches him leave with a little bit of regret, rubbing absently at his wrist.

 

**XIXa.**

 

(Sometimes, Enjolras dreams. In vivid color and sound, of war and revolution and fallen friends all around him in a dusty, broken place.

And the feel of a large, calloused hand slipping into his, a warm and solid body at his side, before the world explodes and the hand falls away.

He always wakes up feeling curiously lonely on those mornings.)

 

**XIXb.**

(And sometimes, Grantaire wakes up in a cold sweat, breathing harshly, both hands fisted tightly in his blankets. He never remembers his dreams, but there’s always a hollow ache in his chest after he has them, like he’s lost something he can’t even remember having.)

 

**XX.**

 

Enjolras is really going for it today, Grantaire thinks, watching him through half-lidded eyes, itching madly for a drink.

“What I’m trying to say,” says Enjolras, slowly, looking as though he’s on his last dregs of patience as a Ravenclaw first-year voices his opinion on werewolf containment camps (he’s for it, of course, as is the majority of Wizarding Britain, no fucking surprise there), “is that the gross mistreatment of the werewolf population has to stop. Have you ever considered that the reason they resort to means such as burglary is because there’s no other way? It’s difficult enough for them to get jobs, and then when they do, they’re fired at the slightest offense because of our bigotry—”

“They’re unsafe,” someone else says, a fifth year from Hufflepuff, “I can’t imagine sharing a roof with such a thing,” causing Grantaire to let out a low sound of amusement.

“They’re only unsafe during the full moon,” Combeferre corrects him, laying a hand on Enjolras’ elbow, something Grantaire has come to recognize as his signature move of restraint. “And even then, there’s Wolfsbane.”

“Which is abhorrently overpriced,” Enjolras says viciously.

“To be fair,” Jehan says, “it _is_ a very difficult potion to make.”

“Not a good enough excuse,” Enjolras says instantly, “we put vast, unnecessary amounts of money into other accounts and other causes. If we were to cut their budgets and put the extra funding into ensuring that all registered werewolves receive a monthly supply—”

“They’re nothing more than animals,” a Gryffindor fifth-year pipes up, one that Grantaire’s never seen at these meetings before. “Why are you so intent on supporting the werewolves, anyway?” Her expression darkens as she surveys Enjolras with disdain and a trace of fear. “Are you planning on building up an army of them?”

Enjolras’ friends rush to his defense, dozens of voices clamoring to be heard in the small room.

“As lovely as all of this is,” Grantaire finally cuts in, from where he’s lounging against his chair in the back of the room, “none of this would ever work.”

The room hushes, and Enjolras fixes him with a severe look. “Why wouldn’t it?”

“Do you really think the Ministry would allow such a thing?” Grantaire smiles, bitterly. “Cut funding from one of the other divisions to provide for the beasts? Not likely.”

“The Department of Magical Transportation can afford a twelve percent cut,” Enjolras says, “and if we just reallocated funds in the Department for the Regulation and Control of Magical Creatures, it would be a step in the right direction. For example, if we decreased the funding that goes to the Capture Unit or to the Committee for Disposal of Dangerous Creatures, we would have enough to get a good start on distributing Wolfsbane every month, and once the public sees—”

“—that their money is going towards monsters that would sooner eat their children than accept help from the system that’s treated them like outcasts their entire lives, the very system that’s taught them to see themselves as something less than human, they’ll revolt and it will all blow up in our faces.” Grantaire is breathing a little heavily, and forces himself to slow down. Beside him, Marius nudges him with his knee, hard. The room is quiet, and everyone turns to face him, some with looks of agreement and respect, some with worry (Joly and Bossuet, Jehan, and Marius beside him), and a select few (Courfeyrac, Bahorel, Éponine) with looks of slow, dawning realization.

“Remus Lupin,” says Enjolras suddenly, “he was a werewolf, fought in the War, earned an Order of Merlin.”

“And was, in essence, forced to leave Hogwarts once it was discovered that he was a werewolf, despite the fact that he was on Wolfsbane,” Grantaire quickly retorts. It had been the year before he’d entered Hogwarts, and arriving here to learn that their werewolf professor had quit had only sealed the bitterness in more tightly. He wonders what it would have been like to know him.

“Why are you so determined to see the negative in everything?” Enjolras asks, and it’s less angry than curious, a determination to learn him and figure him out. Grantaire doesn’t think he’d mind letting Enjolras figure him out; he’s more worried about what would happen after.

“Because life is full of fucking negatives,” says Grantaire matter-of-factly, thinking of the impending full moon.

Enjolras stares at him for the longest time, so intensely that Grantaire finally has to turn away.

“We’re done here,” Enjolras says at last, and Grantaire has never been so happy to leave him.

 

**XXI.**

 

Grantaire is possibly the most infuriating person on the planet, Enjolras decides as he storms into his rooms, pacing angrily around his furniture.

The thing is, he’s not _wrong_. Every word Grantaire said during the meeting had been true, to some extent, and Enjolras knows he’s speaking from personal experience. It makes him wonder all about how Grantaire grew up—were his parents supportive? How did he hide his secret for so long? Who else knew? How did it happen?

He’s started tracking the full moon, and he knows that it’s less than a week away. After that night, however, Grantaire has been adamant about forbidding him from attending any other full moons.

“I’ve been on my own since I was six,” he reasons every time Enjolras brings it up, “and there’s just. There’s always the off-chance, okay? So stay the fuck away, you misplaced Gryffindor. I’ve changed the password anyway.”

Enjolras falls clumsily against his sheets, staring up at the ceiling. While Grantaire may have survived the transformations by himself for this long, there’s no reason for him to do so, especially if he’s on Wolfsbane. It just doesn’t seem right, somehow, especially after witnessing the change first-hand. No one should have to go through that alone.

He speculates about taking extra Defense classes, or perhaps using some sort of protection charm, if only to alleviate Grantaire’s fears. He runs through everything he knows about werewolves in his head: the differences between wolves and werewolves, the pallor they gain as the full moon approaches, the premature aging, the fact that they can only transmit lycanthropy during the full moon, that they’re only dangerous to humans—

“ _Oh_ ,” he breathes.

 

**XXII.**

 

Grantaire lounges on the grass, half-watching the Giant Squid in the lake, ear phones in his ears, hidden mostly from sight by his curly hair and hood. It’s one of those lazy Sunday afternoons where he doesn’t feel like being even remotely productive, perfectly happy to sleep beneath the sun.

“What are those things in your ears?” Enjolras frowns down upon him. Grantaire blinks drowsily at him. His hair has been pinned up haphazardly with one of the many pens he’d given him, revealing the normally hidden curve of his neck.

“Ear phones,” he says, watching as Enjolras takes a seat next to him, uninvited. “To listen to music,” he clarifies at Enjolras’ confused expression. “Muggle thing?” he tries at last.

“Those run on electricity, though,” Enjolras says. “They shouldn’t work on the grounds.”

Grantaire snorts and sticks one of the ear buds in Enjolras’ left ear. “Like that could stop Jehan and me.”

Enjolras starts at the sudden contact. His face is smooth beneath Grantaire’s palm, and he withdraws his hand abruptly. “Listen,” Grantaire says, swallowing hard and looking away.

The Beatles drifts into his right ear and Enjolras’ left, a song as warm and familiar as his mother’s magic. _I want to hold your hand_ , they sing, and Grantaire holds down the fast-forward button with more force than is strictly necessary, eyes darting towards Enjolras’ pale hands.

“How did you make it work?” Enjolras reaches for it, and Grantaire lets him have it because he can’t deny him anything.

“Rewired it so that it runs on magic instead of electricity,” Grantaire says easily, and then laughing at Enjolras’ baffled expression. “Well. Wasn’t just me. Jehan helped. Oh, and Combeferre. Took a couple of months to figure it all out back in fourth year. Was a good… distraction, I guess, from everything else that was happening.”

“Combeferre did?” Enjolras frowns. “I wasn’t aware you two were friends.”

“Friends is kind of a strong word.” Grantaire mulls it over. “He’s really interested in mixing magical and Muggle stuff though, isn’t he?”

“He always has been,” says Enjolras, appearing distracted. “Does he—know?”

“If he does, I wouldn’t be surprised.” Grantaire chews at his bottom lip before raising both shoulders and dropping them with a sigh. “I didn’t tell him, though.”

“Hm,” Enjolras says, and reclines against the grass. Distantly, Grantaire mulls over how he can still look so perfectly composed, not a single hair out of place. Then, unexpectedly, Enjolras shifts and meets his gaze squarely. “I realize this is extremely personal, so you don’t have to answer. But I’m still going to ask: when were you bitten?”

Grantaire sucks in a breath. “Way to warn a guy,” he says softly, his mind already drifting back to that night.

“Like I said, you don’t have to answer.” Enjolras seems a little uncomfortable, and returns his gaze to the clouds.

Grantaire is silent for a while. In his ear, soft piano music starts playing. It is, of course, Debussy’s “Clair de lune” because even his music is out to get him, and he lets out a soft huff.

“I was six,” he says. “It’s not a particularly interesting story. I was on holiday in France, in my grandfather’s house out in the country. It was late, and I couldn’t sleep. I heard something in his back garden. Thought it was a stray dog. I do love dogs,” he adds, wryly. “But it wasn’t. So.”

He sighs, his hand coming up to rub at the scar on his arm. “This isn’t the bite, though you probably already figured that out,” he says next. “He lunged for me, gave me this lovely scratch.” He moves his hand to his hip, fingers brushing against the bone. “He bit me here.”

And he remembers his mother and father’s tears, their grim determination to make life for him as normal as possible. He remembers being locked in the basement during the first full moons, because Wolfsbane had been too difficult to acquire, terrified and utterly alone.

“I got by,” he says at length, still aware of Enjolras’ gaze. “Nothing else to do but keep going, right? Got into Hogwarts with Dumbledore’s blessing. Learned how to make Wolfsbane out of sheer determination. Just got registered, as you know.” He lifts his shoulders in a shrug. “Not much else to it.”

“I admit, I was under the impression the registration process would be a lot more cruel,” Enjolras says, eyes fixed on his exposed arm.

“It used to be, I think.” Grantaire presses a finger to his bicep. “Used to brand them with silver, in the beginning. Or give them tattoos, like they do in Azkaban. But now it’s an invisible mark, shows up only to those who know the proper spell. Supposed to be more—humane, I guess.”

“It’s not fair,” says Enjolras quietly.

“No,” agrees Grantaire, locking eyes with him. For once, Enjolras looks tired, and more human than he’s ever seen him. “No, it’s not.”

 

**XXIII.**

 

The Three Broomsticks is crowded on this last Hogsmeade weekend before the end of the school year, and Enjolras finds himself squashed into a corner booth, Courfeyrac’s heavy weight pressed uncomfortably against his side.

“Going to New York for the summer,” Bahorel is yelling over the noise, and the rest of them throw out various answers of jealousy and excitement. Enjolras knocks back the rest of his butterbeer; he’ll probably go back to Paris for at least a month before returning to England and completing his Ministry applications.

He stands. “I need to pick up a book,” he says, elbowing the others out of the way. Courfeyrac laughs up at him.

“As if you need to study,” he jokes.

“It’s important,” is all Enjolras says about it. “I’ll see you later,” he adds, before stepping out the door and into comparatively blissful quiet. The walk to Tomes & Scrolls is not particularly long, and it is, for once, rather nice outside, even though the clouds seem to be gathering ominously.

The bookshop is, as most old bookshops are, dark and full of dust. He offers a small nod to the shopkeeper, who’s undoubtedly used to seeing him by now; he’s made short trips to the store every Hogsmeade weekend, after all, and has rarely left empty-handed. He wanders around the shelves for a bit, absentmindedly skimming a variety of titles before reaching the shelf dedicated to Transfiguration texts.

He selects a book with a rather detailed section on Animagi, tucking it in the crook of his elbow before scanning what’s left on the shelves. He reaches for one that doesn’t look particularly helpful, entitled _How to Find Your Inner Animal: A Guide to Becoming an Animagus_ and blinks down at the colorful illustrations on the page.

“Should’ve known I’d find you in here instead of at Zonko’s,” an amused voice comes from behind him, and Enjolras turns too fast and knocks his head against the shelf. A muffled curse in French slips from his lips before he can help it. Grantaire’s grin only grows wider.

“That’s terribly inappropriate,” he says, and Enjolras shifts the books away from view and heads towards the front to pay for them. Grantaire tags along behind him, trying to catch a glimpse of the titles. Enjolras only succeeds in hiding them until the shopkeeper rings them up. Beside him, he feels Grantaire go rigid and fall silent. Enjolras determinedly ignores him and exits the shop.

“What are those for?” Grantaire doesn’t wait, and Enjolras meets him head-on.

“Transfiguration,” he says, voice clipped, “I’ve always favored the subject.”

“I am aware of that, yes,” says Grantaire, “and how long have you been studying to be an Animagus? Does McGonagall know? I’m sure she’d love to give you some pointers.”

“I would love to get her advice on the matter,” says Enjolras, quickening his strides.

“And I’m sure she would be interested to know what brought this sudden ambition on—”

“She knows I’m ambitious, and wouldn’t be surprised to know that I’m pursuing this—”

“—especially once she figures out that you’ve suddenly become _friends_ with someone like me—”

“Hey, Grantaire, what are you doing with him?” A new voice cuts into their conversation, belonging to a Hufflepuff sixth year with a friendly grin for Grantaire and a wary look in his eyes for Enjolras. Enjolras takes the opportunity to go around Grantaire and head back towards the school, hands clenched tightly around his purchase. “S’not good to be seen around him, you know. A Slytherin.”

“I think I can choose who I’d like to be seen with, thanks,” says Grantaire calmly.

“He’s just going to go the same way the rest of them do,” the sixth year says, urgently, “I don’t want you mixed up in his—his _ideas_ , is all, it’d look bad for the house.”

“I think you should leave,” says Grantaire pleasantly, “before I punch you in your fucking face.”

Enjolras, who hadn’t gone very far, spins around and grabs him by the elbow. “Grantaire,” he snaps, and shoots a menacing glare towards the other boy, who doesn’t waste time in hurrying away, though not without a parting scowl. “Would you care to inform me what the hell that was about?”

Grantaire wrenches his arm away. “I’m not your damn _cause_ ,” he spits out.

“Of course you’re not,” Enjolras says impatiently, “you’re a friend.”

“A friend? Really? You didn’t even know I existed until this year, and only then because I was interesting enough to grab your attention.” Enjolras tries to ignore the stab of guilt his words bring him. “You’ve done enough, okay? We graduate in a month, you can go and be successful and be the next Minister for all I care, we’ll send each other birthday and Christmas owls, and it’ll be the end of it.”

“You have the potential to be successful too,” retorts Enjolras, and Grantaire lets out a disgusted laugh before walking away. Enjolras reaches for his wrist and refuses to let go even when Grantaire tenses. “You learned to make Wolfsbane when you were twelve, something most Potions Masters and Mistresses struggle with even after decades of practice. You could get a position here if you wanted. McGonagall would vouch for you. I’d vouch for you, if it would help.”

“It would never work,” Grantaire begins, and _god_ but Enjolras is so sick of this, of Grantaire refusing his or anybody else’s help. Maybe it’s something they’ve been steadily building towards but he just never fully understood, but it suddenly makes perfect sense to squeeze his fingers around Grantaire’s wrist so tightly that it probably hurts him, and lean in close to press a short kiss against half-open lips.

He pulls away abruptly.

“You made me do that,” he accuses, a little breathless.

“You’re the Veela,” Grantaire retorts, but he offers up a small, shaky smile. Enjolras returns it with one of his own.

“I’m not doing all of this because I think you’re just a cause,” he says, “in case you haven’t figured it out.”

“I’m beginning to see that, yeah,” says Grantaire, lacing his fingers with his.

 

**XXIV.**

 

“You’re going to meet Enjolras, aren’t you?” Marius sits cross-legged on his bed, grinning. Grantaire rolls his eyes at him.

“Just because I’m sneaking out after curfew doesn’t mean I’m going to meet my—him,” he replies, not really sure what he and Enjolras are. “Boyfriend” seems like such an inadequate term, somehow.

“But you are, aren’t you?” Marius presses, and laughs in delight when Grantaire doesn’t answer. “That’s—that’s brilliant. I’m so happy for you.”

“There’s nothing to be happy about,” Grantaire mutters.

“Sure there is,” says Marius, “you’ve—I mean. You’ve loved him for a long time, haven’t you?”

Grantaire glances at him sharply.

“You didn’t have to say anything for me to know.” Marius shrugs. “I never said anything because I didn’t think there was much to say, but.” He runs a hand through his hair. “You look at him the way I look at Cosette.”

Grantaire snorts, pausing at the doorway of their dormitory, the one they’ve shared for seven years. “If I ever look at anybody the way you look at her, I give you permission to gouge my eyes out,” he declares, and shuts the door behind him just as Marius lobs a pillow at his head.

Enjolras is already there by the time he reaches the top of the Astronomy Tower, as punctual as ever. His hair is pinned back with a bright red marker, the red vivid against his pale hair. Grantaire settles down next to him, nudging him with his shoulder.

“Been waiting long?” he asks, and his heart does that goddamn back-flip it always does when Enjolras looks at him nowadays, with an affectionate sort of irritation.

“Not too long,” Enjolras says honestly, and turns back to the sky. “I was never fond of Astronomy.”

“I had more than a passing interest,” Grantaire tells him wryly, earning him a soft laugh. “The  moon—it’s, well. Pretty beautiful, even after everything.”

The moon is a waxing crescent-shaped thing in the sky, and Grantaire stares up at it, mentally calculating the nights left until the full moon. Beside him, Enjolras picks up his hand and then drops it on the ground. Grantaire turns to him and raises an eyebrow.

“You’re thinking too much,” Enjolras explains.

“Not possible,” Grantaire retorts, though he does stop thinking about the moon. “Strange to think we’ll be leaving this place tomorrow. S’been home for seven years.”

“Have you given any further thought as to your plans for the future?” Enjolras asks, and Grantaire lets out a sigh.

“I do like Potions,” he admits, and Enjolras looks at him, surprised. “And Javert was talking about returning to Beauxbatons in a few years. He said he’d never planned on staying here for very long, anyway.”

“You’d make an interesting professor,” Enjolras says, considering.

“That’s the understatement of the century.” Grantaire fidgets with the bottle of Firewhiskey he’s snuck up with him. “Still, it’s just a thought. You?”

“The Ministry is still my goal,” says Enjolras, “though there are other avenues to consider as well.”

Grantaire imagines Enjolras in the Ministry, steadily working his way up the ranks, becoming the youngest Minister in centuries. He imagines him working for a smaller organization, the ones that draw support for war orphans and Squibs and all of the underprivileged in their society. He imagines his name plastered across the Prophet, articles describing all of the accolades he’s received over the years. He imagines him doing everything he’s set out to do, and doing it well, and wonders if he’ll still be in the picture in the end.

“Wherever you go, you’ll be sure to heat things up,” he says honestly.

Enjolras fixes him with an unreadable stare. “You’ll be there too,” he says, and Grantaire raises an eyebrow.

“Oh, I will, will I? What makes you so sure?”

“It’s just a feeling that I have,” says Enjolras lightly, and Grantaire laughs at him.

“Are your feelings usually on the spot?”

“They haven’t been wrong once.”

“Impressive,” says Grantaire, and lies down against the red-and-blue checkered blanket Enjolras had spread on the ground. There’s something blooming in his chest, warm and full and aching to burst. Enjolras reclines next to him, and the wind blows stray strands of hair into Grantaire’s face. Here, it’s easy to pretend that it’s just the two of them in the whole world, easy to pretend that they can make this, whatever this is, work between them.

He closes his eyes. Tomorrow, they graduate. Tomorrow, they’ll go on different paths. Tomorrow—

—is another day. Tonight, for once, he’s lying directly beneath the night sky and the moon is the furthest thing from his mind. Enjolras is warm and solid at his side, and for now, it’s enough.

 

**XXV.**

 

_Some years later, at the Three Broomsticks—_

“When was the last time you cut your hair?” Enjolras asks, looking distastefully at Grantaire’s ragged locks and unshaven face even as he stretches his long legs beneath their table, setting his boot-clad feet on top of Grantaire’s.

“A while ago,” answers Grantaire flippantly, making no complaint. He never does. “You’re one to talk, with your collection of pens in your hair. Do you realize you’ve shaken up the entire Wizarding community by not using quills?” He smirks, tugging at his disheveled curls. “Does my unkempt appearance displease you, Head of Magical Law Enforcement?”

“Having my pens within easy reach is _convenient,_ while you look—oh, why do I even bother?” Enjolras takes a swig of butterbeer. “How are classes, then?”

“As good as you’d think. Gavroche is in my O.W.L. class, and he’s pretty fucking intent on blowing up every single cauldron in the building.” Grantaire takes a savage bite out of his sandwich, rare roast beef piled thickly in between two slices. “Sometimes I think about going into research, but I think I’d miss the little terrors.”

“You’re better with children than you give yourself credit for,” Enjolras chides, picking at his salad. He glances out the window, noting the darkening sky, the impending sunset. He can feel the magic unfurling in his blood, excitement coiling in the pit of his stomach. “Listen, I’m going to stay with you tonight.”

Grantaire shoots him a warning glare. “We’ve had this conversation before.”

“You always take your potion, and you make it yourself so you know it’s perfect. You’re in the same building as hundreds of children for every transformation. I hardly think this is more risky.”

“Locked up in the tower like Rapunzel with the strongest set of wards known to man just in case something goes wrong,” snaps Grantaire.

 “I don’t understand that reference,” Enjolras starts, but Grantaire interrupts.

“There are so many—too many things I let you get away with. This isn’t one of them.”

“Grantaire.” Enjolras waits until Grantaire meets his eyes. “Trust me.”

“What could possibly—” Enjolras has the distinct pleasure of watching Grantaire’s eyes widen in surprise. “You bastard, you didn’t. Did you? Really?”

“Did you actually doubt me?” he asks dryly, and Grantaire bursts out into delighted laughter.

“What are you?” he asks, in an undertone. “No, don’t tell me. A hamster. You’re a hamster, right?”

“I am not,” says Enjolras indignantly, even though he can’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. Grantaire has made him so _stupid_ , some days, though he doesn’t really mind. “Come on.” He stands up, waiting. “Let’s go.”

Grantaire takes his hand—it’s warm and reassuring, a comfortably familiar weight in his—and follows.

 

**Fin**

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Title taken from e.e. cummings.
> 
> I didn't think I'd post another fic so soon, but the prompt was so intriguing and [nuitdenovembre](http://nuitdenovembre.tumblr.com) is an awful enabler and a wonderful beta, so. (Rediscovering Remus/Sirius over the summer helped.)
> 
> Please pardon any mistakes from the HP canon; I did as much research as I could (through Google, and the HP wiki, mainly) but I wouldn't be surprised if something doesn't quite add up. 
> 
> EDIT: Since so many people are asking (and really, I shouldn't be surprised), I have, uh, two possibilities for Enjolras' Animagus form. One - something feline, like a panther or a leopard (obviously I still haven't made up my mind, but kind of leaning towards the leopard). Two - a rooster. Because the idea makes me laugh. Forever and ever and ever.
> 
>  
> 
> [Come say hi on tumblr if you'd like!](http://fireblazie.tumblr.com)


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